


I'm Burning Up, I'm Going Down

by wolf_and_bard



Series: Of Bruises and Burns [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Swear Words, Technically a sequel but can be read on its own, jaskier is mostly horny, lambert is emotionally constipated, lots of swear words, novigrad, one-sided geraskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 03:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30082848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_and_bard/pseuds/wolf_and_bard
Summary: '“You on your way to Novigrad too?”“Sure, yeah. Let’s say I am. Do you plan to stay the night?” Jaskier asks. Just like that. As if they were old acquaintances reconnecting. As if Lambert didn’t steal away the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that too. He has a bad track record when it comes to Jaskier, but the bard doesn’t seem to mind. He trots along, eyes fixed on the jutting half-timbering houses that draw ever closer.“I am. Guess we can find a cheap inn and share a room,” Lambert says. He would be lying if he claimed his only motive was saving coin, though it does incentivize him. That and the wink Jaskier throws him at the word ‘share’. That easy, huh? 'orin which Lambert breaks all his promises to himself and Jaskier has to comfort him
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Of Bruises and Burns [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213358
Comments: 18
Kudos: 68





	I'm Burning Up, I'm Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> Because I couldn't leave these two alone and some people wanted a sequel: here you go. I hope you enjoy! :) Find me on tumblr if you wanna chat about these two or anything, really (wolf_and_bard).
> 
> (please ignore that everything I know about Novigrad comes from the Wild Hunt haha; I like the city, but Lambert clearly doesn't)
> 
> Stole the title from 'OK' by Robin Schulz
> 
> Warnings: There are a lot of swear words in this and also explicit sexual content.

By the fourth time Jaskier finds him, Lambert thinks the bard must weave magic into his verses, a sort of tracking spell. Because it always happens like this. The first time, Jaskier found him at a temple looking for thugs that had stolen his belongings, the second time Lambert is in a ditch, heaving from butchering some Drowned Dead, the third time he sits by a campfire in the mouth of a cave to escape a hailstorm. Jaskier claims its pure chance, but Lambert doesn’t believe him, you just don’t run across the same person three times in one summer in completely different countries. Lambert can go a whole year without meeting one of his brothers, two or three if he doesn’t make it to Kaer Morhen in the winter. And Jaskier’s not even a full-time traveller. If his tales are to be believed he has family in Kerack, has rooms at the Oxenfurt Academy, has friends all over with whom he can stay so he doesn’t call the road his home the way Lambert does. Not that Lambert cares, he’s just annoyed that Jaskier can simply walk out of the house and stumble across a Witcher if he so desires.

By the fourth time Jaskier finds him, fall is softly fading out in puffy-breath-mornings and wilted leaves that crunch apart under Lambert’s feet as he makes for Novigrad. Not voluntarily, mind you. Fucking city and its horrendous climate. Bandits and addicts everywhere, questionable governing strategies and a city guard that is as venal as any old bum. Lambert ruminates on that and all the reasons he should turn back when he rounds one of the last hills that separate him from the main trading route into the city and has to bring his horse to a full stop. She neighs and bucks, but he quickly casts an Axii at her and jumps off.

“What the fuck,” he yells, ready to bash in the head of whoever jumped in front of him.

“Whoa, easy there.” Jaskier holds up his hands and laughs. That little son of a… well. Lambert’s not going to finish that thought. The bard sports a dream in rose and gold, wretchedly ugly by Lambert’s tastes, and has his lute slung over his back. “Hello Lambert.”

“Jask. I almost ran you over.”

“Glad you didn’t,” Jaskier says. He quickly kisses Lambert’s cheek than turns to greet his mare.

“You could have just called for me to halt,” Lambert grumbles. He takes her by the reins and by some unspoken agreement, he and Jaskier fall into step on either side of the horse.

“And where is the fun in that? Aww, don’t give me that look. Do we serve an extra helping of grumpy today?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing. Bet I can fix that?”

“I can think of some ways,” Lambert replies. He can think of a lot of ways and all of them involve Jaskier bare, writhing, moaning his name. “You on your way to Novigrad too?”

“Sure, yeah. Let’s say I am. Do you plan to stay the night?” Jaskier asks. Just like that. As if they were old acquaintances reconnecting. As if Lambert didn’t steal away the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that too. He has a bad track record when it comes to Jaskier, but the bard doesn’t seem to mind. He trots along, eyes fixed on the jutting half-timbering houses that draw ever closer.

“I am. Guess we can find a cheap inn and share a room,” Lambert says. He would be lying if he claimed his only motive was saving coin, though it does incentivize him. That and the wink Jaskier throws him at the word ‘share’. That easy, huh?

“No need for that,” Jaskier says happily as they cross the Pontar via a heavily-guarded cobblestone bridge. The hooves of Lambert’s horse clack rhythmically, but they aren’t loud enough to drown out the general clamour of the city, all merchants advertising, thugs stealing, prostitutes cackling, children chasing each other. Gods, Lambert really hates Novigrad with a passion and if he wasn’t so short on coin, he wouldn’t ever come here. As it is, the city usually offers a plethora of wretched souls in need of a Witcher’s services and if he hopes to make it to Kaer Morhen at all, he has to save up. Just to keep himself and his horse fed and warm throughout the journey. Fuck, what a year it has been, Jaskier’s appearances the only spots of blue sky on an otherwise overcast firmament of time. Which isn’t ideal. It’s far from ideal. Lambert swore to himself not to develop feelings for the little devil, swore that if he ever met Jaskier again after that one time they fucked, he would shake him off. Both oaths are broken. Lambert’s heart feels bruised at the mere thought of the bard and Jaskier is simply oblivious to it.

“Why not?” Lambert asks. They pass a guardhouse and the two soldiers that man it spew curses at them. Well, at Lambert. Mutant, freak, and such. Even though he is used to it, it still makes his blood boil, something that is mitigated when Jaskier flips them off with a cheerful smile. Another good thing about Jaskier – aside from the fact that he gives the best head Lambert ever had – is that he’s constantly working to improve Witchers’ reputations. The Continent is slow on the uptake, reluctant to let go of its prejudices, but Lambert has received the odd offered bed, the odd compliment even, the odd waybread, all courtesy of Jaskier’s songs. (Of course, it makes Lambert seethe that they are all about Geralt. They all work hard, they are all courageous. Just because Jaskier is in love Geralt doesn’t make him special enough to warrant all this attention. It’s disgusting.)

“I own a small flat in an alley off Hierarch Square,” Jaskier explains, readjusting his lute so that he bears it before him. He plucks the first few notes of a song which blends perfectly into Novigrad’s soundscape. “It may be a bit dusty, I don’t stay there often, but it’s more comfortable than any old inn and definitely more fashionable. Plus, no next-door neighbours that want to throttle us.” He winks at Lambert over the back of the horse and Lambert can’t help a small smile. The second time they had sex was in a ramshackle bed and breakfast in no man’s land and the alcoholic that slept next door took great offense at Jaskier’s… more vulgar noises. Remembering them rekindles the flame in Lambert’s gut. Ah, fuck, here he goes again. He wants Jaskier too much.

“You would let me stay there?”

“Of course,” Jaskier replies. “You’re very much welcome, but if you’d prefer your own rooms and forego some fun, I would only be mildly irritated.”

“Jask, don’t fuck with me,” Lambert says and reaches over to tug at his hair.

“Ah, but that is exactly what I have in mind. Fine, I would very much take it personally and never let you live it down. It’s been a fortnight, I’m struggling over here.”

Lambert can’t help himself. They have entered Novigrad proper by now, streets bustling with bandits and beggars, merchants and herbalists, but for the first time in this over-stimulating place, Lambert feels as though he can stay for a while. It’s only him and Jaskier that really matter. He halts his horse, doesn’t give two fucks in whose way he stands with that, and walks around it. Someone protests, someone cusses at them. Were he alone, Lambert would not hesitate to draw his sword on them. He isn’t. He has a need.

“Lambert?” Jaskier asks, halting his song. He looks puzzled, looks so beautiful with his open doublet and low-cut shirt and the mussed-up hair. Novigrad pales into even more of a murky shit-hole around the bard and Lambert grabs Jaskier’s face with both hands to kiss him, rough and hungry. When he lets go, Jaskier’s eyes glow. “I take that as a yes.”

Jaskier guides Lambert through the pandemonium of an afternoon in a big city. Contrary to Lambert, who never bothered to learn its in and outs, Jaskier knows back alleys and short cuts, knows which major streets are full of horse-shit and where they can get dumplings on a discount to snack on. Lambert follows dutifully, glad when they emerge into a quiet backyard which is fenced in by wooden barriers on two sides with houses squaring it off. Jaskier’s flat is situated above a small bakery from which the smell of fresh bread steams into the frosty air that comes with sundown and Jaskier tells Lambert he can leave his mare with the horses of his neighbours. Lambert does so. He removes her saddle and rubs her down while Jaskier chats with the wife of the baker who has two babes on her arm. Jaskier coddles them, makes aaahs and ooohs and stupid faces and Lambert snorts. He stays away from the conversation and the children. They would likely cry at his mere proximity, such is the aura of a mutant like him. Not like he minds, he despises children. The baker’s wife is kind to him though, calls him Sir and points him to a sack of grain to feed his horse with.

Once that is taken care of, Jaskier bids the woman a good night and kisses the children on the forehead. They giggle and stretch their fatty arms towards him, and Lambert can see that Jaskier wants to stay a while longer. Well, Lambert doesn’t. In fact, he wants to get upstairs right about now, so he grabs Jaskier by the sleeve of his doublet and drags him towards the door which leads upstairs.

“How utterly adorable,” Jaskier squeals. “She must have given birth during the summer.”

“Makes me sick,” Lambert mutters and endures a thorough scolding for that, one he promptly ignores. Jaskier’s just being melodramatic as usual.

Incidentally, the bard’s flat is not as pretentious as Lambert feared. It has one big room with a bed and a cherrywood desk which stands next to a shelf that is crammed with books. So there is some substance to Jaskier’s quick-witted temperament. Huh. There is nothing that resembles a kitchen, only a small privy behind a sliding door and a wardrobe behind another. It is utilitarian, embellished with the odd trinket and instrument, but not so much that it seems overloaded. Lambert guesses that Jaskier really doesn’t spend a lot of time here.

“I would spin some clever reply about how you make me sick too, but I’m too glad for your company to jab at you.” Jaskier draws the door shut behind them and flutters about the room, inspecting every surface. He deposits his lute on the desks and stretches. “Make yourself a home. Do you want to go out for dinner or shall we get right to dessert?”

“Wait,” Lambert says, mind reeling. Jaskier’s neediness would have him rock-hard, but there is something else that tugs at his heart. Something he’s been chewing on. “You said it’s been a fortnight.”

“Yes?” Jaskier raises a brow.

“The last time we met was a month ago. At least.”

“Yeah, so? I wasn’t talking about you.”

Oh. Fuck. Of course. Jaskier likely has a whole harem of lovers. Of course, he wouldn’t restrain himself. Of course, Lambert isn’t enough. It makes sense and yet, Lambert can’t stop the noxious undertone as he says:

“I just assumed that I would be the only one.” Which is something that fits his usual cockiness, but is completely dissonant to how he feels inside. Vulnerable. Slapped across the face. It makes him want Jaskier even more. It makes him want to ask who the others were, find them and gut them. Fuck, Lambert _should_ be the only one.

“Aww, my darling puppy,” Jaskier purrs and walks over to Lambert. He plucks the swords from his iron-hard grip and deposits them by the door, then strokes Lambert’s stubbly jawline, kisses his nose, both corners of his mouth. Shit, shit, shit. Lambert’s in way too deep. “I don’t do mutually exclusive arrangements, not for casual sex anyway. It would be such a shame to deprive the world of this.” Jaskier gestures down himself in what is clearly meant to be a joke. The world doesn’t deserve him. No one deserves him, no random commoner, no nobleman or -woman, no king nor queen, not even Geralt. (Lambert doesn’t stop to wonder when he has gotten this possessive about the bard, the only relationship they have is based on a handful of fucks, but it feels like much more significant.) Speaking of the white-haired Witcher.

“You would for Geralt,” Lambert says. Good job. Great. Jaskier sighs, steps back, then takes off his doublet, dusts off surfaces, fluffs up the bed. “You would.”  
  
“That's not fair.”

“How is that not fair, hm? You are the one that’s using me to numb your feelings for him to, to… to get over him or whatever.” The accusations fly from Lambert’s mouth before he’s even thought them. He hates Geralt then, hates him so fiercely he never wants to see his stupid face again lest he rips his throat out and regrets it later. Jaskier halts, one hand on the red-and-purple quilt that covers his bed.  
  
“Ouch,” he says. “Do you really think that’s what this is?”  
  
“What else would it be?”

“Gods, you Witchers are complicated. Come here.” With another heavy sigh, Jaskier sits, pats the bed next to him. While the bard pulls off his boots, Lambert remains rooted to the spot, contemplating. He’s about to mess this whole thing up. About to ruin even the good sex they might still have. Alright. Just swallow the ire and sit with him. Just for once. Lambert’s shoulders sag as he drops his pack and shrugs out of his cloak, his boots. Only because he doesn’t want to track dirt through Jaskier’s flat. He sits on the other side of the bed and stares daggers at Jaskier who shakes his head and picks up Lambert’s hand. Jaskier’s hand is warm with calluses form sharp lute strings that press into Lambert’s skin. He remembers acutely how they feel dragging over the tip of his cock.

“What?” he barks to cover that up.

“If the people that call you heartless only knew the extent of my suffering at the magnitude of your emotions. No, don’t even start, I see right through you. Look, Lambert, I like you. I like to make you laugh and I like to fool around with you and you fuck like a god, honestly, but I don’t sleep with you to compensate for my feelings for Geralt. That would be cruel. Besides,” Jaskier breaks off and jabs his free finger at Lambert’s chest. “You were the one who left in the middle of the night after that first time, and you were the one who swore it didn’t mean anything the second time, and you were also the one who said this was never going to happen again last time. So, what’s it gonna be? Indifference or jealousy?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Lambert hisses. “Fuck this.”  
  
“Yeah, been there, done that. So?”  
  
“So what?”  
  
“So, are you going to answer my question or are you going to behave like a petulant child? I like you, I want you, isn’t that enough?”

Lambert scowls. No, it isn’t enough. It’s fuck-all.

“Was Geralt one of them? Did he fuck you?” Lambert asks. He watches a war being fought on Jaskier’s face. The bard scowls back, then rolls his eyes, then chuckles quietly to himself. If only Lambert knew what goes on in that pretty head of his.  
  
“Why are we talking about Geralt when I could be bouncing on your cock right now?”  
  
“Because... well.”  
  
“Silly little lamb”, Jaskier tuts and smiles, climbs further onto the bed. He kisses Lambert and the kiss is honey-sweet, lingering and Lambert hates how it makes his heart flutter. He is no lamb. He is a wolf, dammit. “I fell in love with Geralt almost instantly.” Fuck that hurts. “And I understood that love would remain unsatisfied the very same day. We are friends, yes, but I am very much not Geralt’s type. I have accepted that, and there's nothing I need to compensate for. Yes, you and Geralt are very similar, but I'm not stupid enough too mistake you for him or treat you as a stand-in. I like you for your own merits.”  
  
“Which are?” Lambert asks. Somehow all his confidence evades him. He can find no reason why Jaskier would like him and he's reasonably certain the bard might just be wrong about Geralt. Well, would have been wrong if it hadn't been for Yennefer of Vengerberg entering the stage of this particular play.  
  
“Oh, darling.” Lambert can hear Jaskier's heart break and he hates himself for giving the bard cause to pity him, but fuck he feels weak-boned and thin-skinned today. He just needs some affection. Jaskier kisses him again, one hand coming up to cup the side of Lambert's face, the other pulling at Lambert’s leather plate. He lets himself be guided by Jaskier’s firm grip and doesn’t return the kiss, but doesn’t stop the bard either. His mouth is warm and whispers pretty little sentiments that fall softly like dandelion seeds between them.

“You never hold back. You run off at the mouth, you don’t sugar-coat, you are brutally honest and that’s so very rare in the spheres I usually travel,” Jaskier says, each word stressed by a peck on Lambert’s mouth and this time, Lambert meets them all, gets drunk on them.

“You are stupidly vivacious, you make me feel like I’m thrumming with potential.” Quick fingers unbuckle Lambert’s gear, discard his gloves, pull at his shirt, pull it over Lambert’s head.

“You have the most satiny, luscious hair,” Jaskier murmurs into another kiss and gently messages Lambert’s scalp which tingles, sends shivers down his spine and into his limbs.

“You may claim not to be invested in this, but you always hold me for a while and I’ve rarely felt as at peace as when you do.”

Yes, Lambert thinks, yes me too. And: stop fucking me up like this. Stop acting like I’m more than a freak with anger issues.

“Want me to go on?”

“No,” Lambert says.

Every last muscle in his body aches, his skin feels inflamed and his heart beats like an armada of rock trolls is stomping through the streets below. Lambert hasn’t ever known tenderness like this and he would have laughed it in the face if not for the fact that Jaskier sounds nothing, if not sincere. And Lambert prides himself in being able to smell lies. Jaskier smells like soap and endorphins and arousal as he presses his forehead to Lambert’s and Lambert releases a shaky breath.  
  
“What do you need, Lambert?” the bard whispers and his lips hover close so that Lambert can feel the tingle of another kiss, but not yet the press of it. Jaskier’s hands trace his collarbones, the outline of his pecs, graze his nipples. When Lambert tilts his chin forward and their lips meet in a dizzying slow-dance, he wraps his arms around Jaskier and pulls him close. When they break apart, he sobs quietly. It’s too fucking intimate, he can’t bear it. “Hey, sweetheart, hey. Talk to me.”

“I don’t know,” Lambert mouths. It feels like a confession.

“That’s alright, don’t worry.” Jaskier kisses him again before slipping lower. His lips paint Lambert in all new lines, trailing kisses that burn in bright colours and tangled feelings. Along his jawline, down his neck, outlining his shoulders and the welts of the scars that he wears like armour. Jaskier makes them feel like a part of him that is worthy of worship. Lower and lower trails the brushstroke of Jaskier’s lips and his fingers do quick work of the laces on his breeches. Lambert clutches the quilt to either side and lets his head fall back. Lets the noises out, the low growls and high whines, the yelps of pain when Jaskier bites and the drawn-out moans when he finally takes Lambert’s cock into his mouth, all of it at once and that’s just heaven if Lambert’s ever felt it. Jaskier takes care of him with slow circles of his tongue, head lifting, then sinking down again, with low hums and fingers that ghost over the tense planes of Lambert’s stomach, massage his thighs, tease at his hole. Lambert imagines what it would be like for Jaskier to fuck him for a change, to slowly push into him with all those saccharine words on his tongue and he doesn’t see himself ever being that vulnerable for anyone, but the image of it is enough to push him over the edge with a low cry. Lambert tastes salt on his lips when he comes. Jaskier is precious about it, doesn’t ask questions. He cleans Lambert up and tucks him into his bed and holds him until Lambert feels himself again, until they return to bruising kisses and harsh thrusts that have the bedframe slam into the wall and Jaskier be sore with pleasure. After, Lambert doesn’t feign indifference, doesn’t claim that this was the last time. They both know it would be lies.

  
  
The next morning, they leave Novigrad behind, eastbound as Jaskier needs to get to Oxenfurt and Lambert has found himself a contract, an infestation of Nekkers on a corn farm that is about halfway between the two cities. Jaskier tests out rhymes under his breath and Lambert's content to walk by his side, feel his warm presence and the kiss of the sun for as long as he still can. He left his horse in Novigrad, meaning to return after the contract is finished – not that he enjoys the prospect of entering that hellhole on his own. He doesn't want Jaskier to leave, not again, not after last night. This time at least, Lambert will make sure to promise the bard a _next_ time.  
  
Neither of them expects to run into Geralt. It's just a dust road through a wheat field, no soul in sight except for the white-haired Witcher that approaches them on Roach's back. He dismounts when he sees them and Lambert can smell panic on his brother. He's very certain that Geralt can smell Lambert all over Jaskier, even though they both took a thorough bath in one of Novigrad’s public path houses just this morning.  
  
"What the fuck?" Geralt asks and Jaskier tenses, then melts into a smile that just kills Lambert. Like a crossbow bolt straight to the heart. He wants that smile all for himself.  
  
"Geralt, dear, what are the odds?" Jaskier says and hugs Geralt with much more enthusiasm than the older Witcher will tolerate. At least that's what Lambert thinks. His throat tightens when he sees Geralt wrap his arms around Jaskier's middle and take a whiff of his hair all while staring daggers at Lambert.  
  
"Pretty fucking slim," he growls and they part. Geralt approaches Lambert and grips his shoulder in a brotherly half-hug. Lambert is relieved until Geralt hisses into his ear: "Did you know?"  
  
And Lambert, well, fuck. Lambert can't help himself.  
  
"Not the first time, no."

“What makes you think you can just do this?” Geralt releases him and for a moment Lambert thinks his brother is going to hit him square in the face. He braces himself for the impact. It doesn’t come. Jaskier walks up to Geralt and draws his attention with a small wave of his hand.  
  
"Honestly", Jaskier says gently, and puts a hand on Geralt's shoulder. Geralt jerks back as though stung. "Why are you upset?"  
  
"I'm upset because you've been letting _him_ fuck you.” Him. Not my brother, not Lambert. Him. The word is spat out like rotten milk.

This is grand, Lambert thinks. If the situation were reversed, Geralt would not hesitate either. He would be gloating right now, something Lambert can only just stop himself from doing. He’s impulsive, but not stupid enough to start a fight with Geralt. No need for broken bones and broken hearts. The collateral damage, to Jaskier most of all, would be unspeakable.  
  
"What's it to you? We're friends, Geralt, we’re not married.”  
  
"Doesn't matter," Geralt grunts. His cheeks are flushed pink and Lambert knows that spark in his eyes. Never a man of many words, Geralt was, but he's about to talk himself into a rage and Jaskier's going to be torn to shreds by it. This is why Witcher's are loners. The wolves especially become so territorial over people that they rather not try. Early into his life, Lambert learned that harsh lesson of jealousy and heartbreak and bitterness. He _wants_ to sit back and watch. He _wants_ Geralt to shoot volleys of insults and accusations at Jaskier and destroy their friendship forever. He _wants_ to watch Jaskier’s heart splinter apart, he… wait. No, that’s just fucking vile, isn’t it? For all his own sulking and pointing fingers, Lambert does not want Jaskier to get hurt. The last thing he wants is for Jaskier to get hurt. What is he even thinking? That Geralt will say something hurtful and Jaskier will just throw himself at Lambert? That they will ride off into the sunset together? Happily ever fucking after?

Nah. Lambert is mean, he has a bad temper, he hates most everything and everyone around him, but here are two people he loves. And both love each other more than either loves him. Which, well. It’s like he’s trapped by several wraiths, no sword, no Yrden to aid him and they all reach their ghostly, ghastly hands into his chest and squeeze his inner organs. Which, well. ‘Tis nothing for a hard-trained Witcher.

So, Lambert makes a decision. He walks over to his brother and clamps one hand over his mouth. Geralt's nostrils flare, his eyes are bloodshot and Lambert knows he has a split-second to react. He casts Quen with his free hand, blocks Geralt's Aard, then punches him square in the stomach. He's there to catch Geralt as he doubles over.  
  
"What in the gods' names are you doing?" Jaskier asks.  
  
"Keeping Geralt from saying something he will regret later. Look," Lambert says, directing that last word at Geralt. Geralt gives a feeble attempt at winding out of Lambert's grip, but slacks eventually, forehead pressed to Lambert's shoulder. He grunts once and Lambert releases his mouth.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Sorry, had to. Here's the deal: I don't want to take Jaskier away from you." Yes, he does. "And I couldn't if I tried. In case you hadn't noticed he's a very loyal man and really, really deeply in love with you."  
  
"Lambert," Jaskier says, a dangerous edge to his tone which Lambert ignores.  
  
"It’s plain you don’t feel the same way. You have your sorceress. You have him at your beckon, as your herald and your friend and your companion. You have everything you could ask for. I didn't think you would mind if he and I had sex every once in a while." Lambert always knew Geralt would mind. He's lying through his teeth here, all to spare Jaskier the torment and bear it for him. See, this is why Lambert doesn’t usually allow himself to get close to others. It will always end in burns and bruises and broken hearts, and who is he kidding anyway? He was never the best of their school, never the smartest or quickest or the best swordsman. He spent half his life chasing after Eskel and Geralt and even now he isn’t good enough for their seconds, their fucking scraps. No matter what Jaskier tells him, it’ll always be Geralt. Because of that, he lets Geralt go and he says: "Forgive me, both of you." And he walks away.

Part of him wants Jaskier to call after him, to tell him to stay. Part of him wants Geralt to run after him and tell him it's all fine, he overreacted. That part wants so desperately to glance over his shoulder and see whether they are looking at his retreating backside. Lambert wrestles that part for a good three minutes until his strength gives in. He looks back. He sees Geralt and Jaskier standing close, bound by each other's gravity, their heads tucked together. Caught up in each other, for better or worse?  
  
Lambert is so very bad at not being selfish. So very self-centered. Shit. He shouldn't have looked back. No, he shouldn't have yielded to Geralt what the White Wolf didn't know to appreciate in the first place. Too late now. Lambert walks away, bruised, burning.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. But the good news is I'm working on part three already. It just has to get worse before it can get better.


End file.
